Beauty and the Brooklynite
by Morning Dew
Summary: (Retired.) Snitch was her lecturing older brother, Jack Kelly was the man trying to win her over. But Morgaine's life lessons would only come from an unlikely friendship with a Brooklyn leader robbed of his rich inheritance.


DISCLAIMER: No, I don't own the characters in this story featured in that great classic, Newsies. *snickers* But I do own Lucas, Morgaine, and the butler man so booyaka!  
  
*~*~Beauty and the Brooklynite~*~*  
  
Long ago, in upper state New York where acres spread for miles on end until the lands touched the skies at the horizons and where heavy snowfall covered the greenery of parks and such like a protective blanket, there lived in a great illustrious mansion the heir to a grand fortune of riches. Though the young man, a handsome one named Merryll Conlon, would not be able to officially inherit the wealth until his eighteenth year or until his uncle passed away from old age, he was still treated with the utmost respect and reverence, much like a people would treat their notorious king.  
  
Merryll was lavished with deluxe gourmet meals sometimes requiring a team of eight chefs to be cooked and to fulfill his wishes, huge social events were organized every weekend to recognize his glory and power. He hosted sports events in his own private arena and traveled across the nation as a leisure activity. However, nothing could replace the feelings those who served the boy on a daily basis harbored, feelings that Merryll was nothing more then an egotistical, spoiled brat who reveled in ruining the lives of the lower class, for he cared nothing for their well-being.  
  
A committee of missionaries had once approached him to request a fund that would feed the hungry children of third-world countries, but Merryll had turned them away, utterly appalled by the thought that they could even consider him a possible donor to their charity. It wasn't long before those in charge of the fortune the boy would one day inherit started to grow wary. How could they entrust millions of dollars to one who sought the betterment of only himself, especially when it was apparent that he loathed the lesser people of his community?  
  
To teach the boy a valuable lesson, the servants allied with the nobles in a clever conspiracy that would take Merryll and his right-hand man by surprise when least they expected it. Once the plans were finalized and everything set in place, and of course one the covenants were signed that no one would betray the good of the people by offering the boy any form of aid once certain actions were carried out, the workers of the Conlon mansion could barely contain their delight as the days passed.  
  
The time at last came one February morning. After expertly slipping a powdery drug into the beverages Merryll and his younger cousin Lucas would be drinking that night at a grand party, Butler Jacques carried a silver trey to the boys' table and offered them the refreshments-which they gladly took and immediately drank. The hours seemed to stretch for all eternity as the servants and nobles waited and waited, every so often casting glances at the young Conlons, waiting for the youth to wear out. Lucas was the first to retire to his chamber for sleep, Merryll not succumbing to his tiredness until an hour passed. But when the boys were deep in their slumber, the conspirators set to work.  
  
Late the next morning, Merryll awoke upon a rather hard mattress and squinted against the rays of sunshine that beamed down at him with a vengeance. He rubbed his eyes and sat up yawning as his grogginess slowly dissipated. When his eyes finally adjusted to the lighting, he found himself staring at an indented space in the wall opposite him, a squeaking rat resting in the hole. "What the hell!" He leapt out of the bed and tripped over a body lying sprawled out on the floor, taking a nose-dive to the hardwood floors that should have been spotless tiles!  
  
He realized the body was that of his sleeping cousin and he nudged the boy roughly. "Lucas, get up!" The boy didn't respond. Merryll leaned over and screamed this time. "Lucas, Get UP!"  
  
Lucas woke with a start, his heart pounding furiously within his chest. "What, What!? Is he dead yet? Is he dead yet?!"  
  
Merryll rolled his eyes but had to smirk at the inquiry. It seemed as if the boys were on the edges of their seats when it came to their uncle's death. After all, it would make them millions of dollars richer. "No, I think we're the ones who are dead. Take a good look around." His cousin did as he was told and gasped in astonishment, unable to utter a single word. Merryll then noticed a notepad hanging around a string tied about Lucas' neck and ripped the object off with ease. "What's this?" He opened the small book and began reading, his green-blue eyes electrifying with rage a minute later.  
  
"What does it say?" Lucas looked over his shoulder and read the note as well.  
  
~*~Dear Master Conlon,  
  
We regret to inform you that your rude behavior as of late has annoyed us to the point in which we unanimously agree you don't deserve the fortune your uncle has for years been working to save for his successor. You treat money as if it grows on trees, have no concept of managing funds, and are guilty of forgetting those under your name who you're indebted to, not because of any deeds they might have achieved for you, but because as a righteous citizen, it is your duty to help those who at least attempt to help their selves.  
  
You are a disgrace to the Conlon name and it seems as if the lessons of true love, humility, and care for humanity can only be birthed in you from life lived on the streets. And so, with special arrangements made with the keeper of the Brooklyn lodging house for children, we have put upon you the responsibility of assuming the role 'leader of the Brooklyn newsboys'. Not everything in life is as easy as you thought, Master Conlon. You will not only have to climb the ranks to acceptance, all the while you will have to provide the food on your table, pay for the roof over your head, commune with people you once thought worthless, and learn that the simplest things in life are sometimes the best things.  
  
Until you learn this, we will never recognize you as a member of the family. So strive hard, young man, with all the endurance you possess in your blood. Never lose hope and we look forward to seeing you soon.  
  
Always, Your Faithful Subjects  
  
P.S. Lucas, we do apologize for forcing you through this as well, for though you joke around much about loving money, we know deep down inside you have high values. However, we didn't think Merryll could survive alone so we sent you along with him. Do forgive us. And one last note, we were told you both would have to be given nick names to properly fit the newsie demeanor, so we named the one who lacks a soft spot, Spot, and you Lucas can be called Runner, for after living with Merryll in these conditions for at least one day and hearing his incessant complaints, you'll want to run away as soon as possible. Our best wishes to you both! ~*~  
  
Spot crumbled the piece of paper, his fist clenching into a tight ball until his knuckles turned white. "I can't believe this! This is rubbish; they can't do this to us!" And to prove it, he marched to the local authorities and pleaded that the law enforcers assist him in seizing back his fortune. But Spot hadn't realized that he was clad in newsboy attire and didn't understand why the men escorted him out of the building. At least not until Runner, who had patiently waited outside, pointed out to him that there was no way out of their plight. They would have to live it out like men.  
  
"I don't think it'll be as miserable as you make it seem," the younger cousin said as they strolled about the borough, trying not to look at the poor sights cluttered on all sides.  
  
"Forgive me for not having your optimism," Spot replied in disdain. This was pure excrement to him! Even robbed of his rich clothing, that was going too far! He was determined to find a way out of this mess, no matter what.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Morgaine turned a page in the book she was reading, a sigh escaping from her thin, pink lips into the pestering atmosphere that was the Manhattan lodging house for newsies. Irritable though its residents were at times, the girl still managed to find complacency in the tales she often read from the early break of dawn to the late hours of the night in which a full moon was her only source of light.  
  
The others labeled her a bookworm, a young lady who needed to get her head out of the clouds and see reality as it really was, but she ignored him. It was them who were missing out on the greatest fantasies ever born into the hearts of man. After all, what did they want her to open her eyes to? The starving children lingering on the streets of New York with tearful eyes that begged passers to toss them a crumb of bread? The youthful factory workers all over the state who worked seventeen hours straight to receive a salary that would never support them the way they needed it to?  
  
She shook her head at the tragedies, ashamed of the humanity that was ruling the boroughs these days. Were these the demands the lower class would forever succumb to? In the books she read, there were countless stories of passionate, intrepid people who rebelled against the authority of higher powers and fought for freedom and justice. These days, it seemed as if such people were merely legends, tall tales that were never meant to come to life.  
  
"Morg, would ya stop readin' that book and get ready tah sell? Half the newsies is already gone! By the time we get there, they's gunna be outta papes!"  
  
The girl glanced up at her older brother Snitch with a sarcastic look that made him aware she could care less whether the newspaper industry burned in hell that very morning.  
  
He sighed. "It aint free livin' heah, Morg. And I'se sick and tired of payin' ya way. Maybe if ya stopped fantasizing so much, you'd make enough money tah by a nice place outta these slumps, but until youse do, ya gunna sell papes, alright?"  
  
She closed the book, a loud slam echoing throughout the near empty room, and rose to her feet. "Maybe if ya stopped pick pocketing half the time, you'd make more money and wouldn't be complaining as much." She didn't stay long enough to see his expression but she assumed he was either scowling at her or...well, she couldn't imagine what else he'd be doing. Snitch wasn't exactly too proud of her. Despite her good looks and buried charisma, she turned down every guy that ever offered her a date, especially Jack Kelly!  
  
No one understood Morgaine, and he doubted anyone ever would. She was like a labyrinth, a maze that one would endlessly have to traverse only to realize there was no direct route to her heart. She would ever be a mystery to even those closest to her.  
  
After she readied herself for another day of hawking the headlines, the unlikely siblings headed to the distribution center, exchanging no words and not having the desire to. Snitch would have loved to have a normal relationship with the girl but it seemed as if she were always pushing him away, not wanting anything to do with him. This baffled him all the more. Who would she confide in if she couldn't even trust her own brother? Or better yet, wouldn't trust him! She refused to tell him anything and he hated that, but what was he to do? He surely couldn't force her to share her feelings with him.  
  
Jack Kelly, the leader of the Manhattan boys, had already purchased his usual 100 papers. He obviously wasn't in a challenging mood, for when the stakes were high and Jack's spirits even higher, he would take an extra leap of faith and go for 200. The tall young man leaned against the brick wall of an edifice and watched Morgaine and Snitch pass by, a grin plastered on his face. He made a comment to a boy wearing an eye patch, rightfully called Blink, and then followed the two after resting his papers aside for a moment.  
  
"Heya Morg, youse plannin' on sellin' wid anyone today?"  
  
The girl rolled her hazel eyes and kept walking. Blink burst out laughing in great hysteria. "Talk about a shut down," he called out to the others, waving his hands wildly like an amused drunk.  
  
Jack glared at him, but didn't let his hopes get saturated with the rejection. "Ah c'mon, it aint healthy tah be sellin' alone. Ya know how many goons is out there waitin' for a sweet thing like youse tah give 'em a chance at somethin'? Ya need a man tah protect youse, sweetheart. Someone strong who aint afraid of nothin'."  
  
"Well, I s'pose that rules you out then!" She arched an eyebrow at him in challenge but he only gaped at her, disbelief written all over his face. She wasn't the first girl to withstand his charm; there definitely had been ones before. However, Morgaine liked to put up a fight for no particular reason whatsoever.  
  
"So ya gunna be like that, huh? Ya know, I just don't sell wid anyone! It kinda was a compliment; me askin' youse tah sell wid me and all. But ya gotta be such a damn stubborn goil, I don't understand how youse ever gunna make someone happy!"  
  
Snitch stepped in then. Yes, his sister was embarrassing him to one of the greatest degrees of humiliation but he wasn't going to let the Manhattan leader insult her like that. "Jack, that's enough. She aint wanna sell wid youse, don't make a big deal outta it. Maybe she just wants tah be alone." Morgaine didn't particularly appreciate him having defended her, she was quite capable of doing it herself. But even so, she was somewhat glad that she wouldn't have to execute any more effort into driving Jack away. In the end, his perseverance never tired, as if the word 'no' never existed in his vocabulary.  
  
She stepped out to purchase her papers once the line had reduced in size and with the papers now under her arm, scanned the crowds of boys for a possible selling partner. Catching sight of Bumlets taking a drag on his cigarette, she bounded down the stairs and greeted him with a smile. "Heya! Youse sellin' wid me and Snitch today?"  
  
"Shoah, a promise is a promise, right?" He combed his black hair out of his eyes and grinned back at her. "Jack tryin' tah win ya over again?" When she nodded, he couldn't help but laugh. Jack Kelly would just never stop.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Bumlets held up his last paper and shouted out something about white crows attacking a group of nuns at the center of Central Park on Saturday, arousing interest in one man who hurriedly bought the paper and then skimmed the pages for the unusual story. The boy tipped his hat at the man in appreciation and then dodged off to meet up with Snitch and Morgaine. Where would he be without Jack's motto of 'improving the truth'? He honestly couldn't say. Probably sitting in the cold streets eating stacks of paper for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  
  
"She's still sellin'?"  
  
Snitch looked at his friend, embarrassed for the second time that day. "I aint never said she were some prodigy. She hasn't even sold ten papes yet, and she bought fifty! We'se can't stand heah all day. By the time she's done, it'd be New Year's!"  
  
"Well we shoah aint in no hurry," the other replied. As he watched Morgaine sell, he noted the similarities between the girl and her brother. They had the same color and texture of hair, though Morgaine's reached down her back in long strands. The family trait of hazel eyes was present among the both of them as were long eyelashes and their slightly long faces could cause a stranger to mistake them as twins. The resemblances ended there unless one incorporated the matter of their large front teeth and excluded the fact that Morgaine's were a measly centimeter smaller. Besides that, where Snitch was tall, his sister was short at 5'3". Where he was of medium stature, she was much too thin.  
  
Morgaine caught Bumlets staring at her. "Ya know what," she said as she closed the distance between them in a few strides. "I'm tired of this. What good is it? I'm a pitiful newsgirl and there's no place for me in the peddling world. I'm better off getting paid to write the articles they sell!"  
  
"Ya aint good at nothin' but readin' them damn books," said Bumlets.  
  
Snitch rested his stack of papers on a shoulder and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. It was too hot to sell no matter how easy he could deceive his customers. "Yea, so while we'se out bustin' our backs in some factory latah down the road, you'll be the boss lady in charge, yellin' at us tah pick up the slack."  
  
His sister thought on the idea. She never considered what she would like to do with her life. It had always been a childhood dream to teach, to leave an imprint on the generations of tomorrow. But lacking a formal education and solely relying on her books to mature mentally, she doubted that dream would ever become a reality. Sometimes she envied the aristocracy, not because its people were drenched in wealth or known by their popularity, but because they had the opportunity to do whatever they wished. She knew the women lived a sheltered life, but the men...why, they could very well do as they pleased! Study as a doctor, lawyer, whatever they fancied!  
  
"The boys should be meetin' at Tibby's in thoity minutes," Snitch announced. "We'se bettah get goin' whether we sold our papes or not." The trio of companions agreed and started off for the restaurant to grab a bite to eat.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Runner turned the knob of a sink to produce hot water from the faucet, only to grimace with disgust when the liquid discharged was a grimly brown shade that remained in dark tones before finally turning clear ten seconds later. "I can't believe I've been thrown to the curb like this." He cupped a hand over his mouth to prevent himself from hurling and exited the washroom into Spot's private room, a reserved area closed off at the end of a hall. He creaked open the door and stepped in, noting the new Brooklyn leader was still enraged by his turn of fortune.  
  
"Have you seen what they eat at this place?" Spot began to complain. "It looks like the same crap they feed the pigs back home. What's worse, they've only given me one change of clothes. One! Do they expect me to wash these rags everyday? Or am I suppose to go without bathing for a week straight? These are flea-bitten mongrels we're dealing with here. I'm surprised we've lasted this long!"  
  
"I suppose we should make the best of the situation and just start fitting in." Runner brought out the prized notepad from a back pocket of his pants and flipped over the cover, looking over the sentences he had written down. "First of all, we have to adopt their accents."  
  
"You've got to be kidding me. Do you really think I'm going to subject myself to their dialect? They talk like, like...uncultured heathens!"  
  
He shrugged. "I wouldn't go so far as to say that. I think the accent's rather trendy. Like it or not, though, we're going to look even more suspicious walking around the streets of New York dressed like ruffians but talking like millionaires. Next, you need to address the boys as their new leader. They haven't even seen your face yet."  
  
"What do you want me to do?" Spot nearly yelled. "I don't think I could stay in a room for over five minutes with riff raffs crowding around me. Why don't you just give an introduction speech for me?"  
  
"No, as the leader, you do your own speeches. The third reminder is two things in one. Since we're newsies now, we're going to have to sell papers every morning to support ourselves. Food's not provided and neither is lodging."  
  
The elder looked at him incredously. "You're suggesting manual labor?!"  
  
"And aside to selling papers, I've noticed that the Brooklynites carry around sling-shots, it's their infamous weapon so I've been told. Not only do we need to make our own, but we must learn how to use them." He closed the notepad with a smile and tucked it back in his pocket. "Well that doesn't seem too hard, now does it?"  
  
Spot looked around at the dire conditions he had found himself thrust into. A busted bed with only one sheet provided, as if the raggedy piece of fabric was supposed to protect him from the frigid winds of the night. A window with two of its panes shattered, moth-eaten furniture, creaking floor boards, and a ceiling that kept leaking drops of water into a tin pail situated against a wall. "This is absurd!" He threw his hands in the air and plopped down onto an edge of the bed, a noise popping under him.  
  
"I think you just broke another spring," Runner laughed.  
  
"Oh yea, laugh it up, Lucas! I honestly don't see how you can find all the humor in this. Do you even realize yet what we're facing here? We have no money, no power; they don't even know who we are here! For all they care, we could be stable boys from some old hag's farm!"  
  
"The tragedy of it all," the other sighed sarcastically. He reached for the doorknob behind him and motioned to Spot to get up. "It's about time you be addressing your loyal subjects, your highness."  
  
The Brooklyn leader rose with a groan and followed the boy out the door, wondering what on earth he would say to a bunch of street rats he had never even met before.  
  
* * * * * Shall I continue? What thinks you? If you wanna read more, then leave a review! ^_^ OoOgles, a rhyme! *giggles* Love ya All! 


End file.
